Ross’s expression hollowed. “Exactly. Then the Russians claim the missile never existed. That it ‘vanished’ over the Tyrolean Alps. Their exact phrasing.” He let the absurdity sit there for a beat. “Everyone outside Moscow believes they’re lying through their teeth. And that someone brought it down quietly.”
Marshall shook his head. “Missiles don’t vanish.”
“No,” Ross agreed. “But radars can be spoofed. Telemetry can be faked. And a false missile alert paired with an assassination attempt? That’s the kind of coordinated chaos Sidarov has been itching to engineer. Case in point, Coulter was less than two minutes away from issuing a counterstrike that would have ushered in World War III.”
Marshall felt something cold settle under his sternum.
Ross went on. “It gets worse. During the chaos, a data packet was sent from a device registered to Jackson’s temporary secure account. Routed through six countries. Encrypted. Looked like intel being moved off-books. The kind of thing traitors do before disappearing.”
Marshall’s voice was ice. “Did anyone verify the device was physically on him?”
Ross hesitated—but only for a breath.
No. No, they hadn’t.
“It was found in the debris of a blown-out surveillance bay,” Ross said. “Burned, but not enough to hide the ID. Whoever set this up wanted the evidence to survive.”
A perfect frame job. Clean. Surgical. Cruel.
Marshall felt his pulse hammer, hard enough to break bone. He forced his breathing to even out. “Someone stole his credentials, spoofed his access, used his device, and—what?—expects us to believe Jackson tried to assassinate the President and provoke a global incident in the same night?”
Ross didn’t answer immediately.
He looked down at his hands and slowly interlaced his fingers like he was anchoring himself before saying something he didn’t want to say.
“Marshall...” His voice was low. Measured. “No one is saying he definitely did any of that.”
Marshall’s stomach dropped through the floor. That tone. So careful. The one Ross used with families at casualty notifications. The one he used when the truth hurt more than the lie.
But Ross wasn’t done.
“What people are saying,” he continued, “is that Jackson was the only American on-site with the access, proximity, andskillsetto pull off a coordinated breach like this. Not technical capability—operationalcapability. He’s a Scout, Marshall. He knows how to move unseen, how to bypass physical security, how to get into places he’s not supposed to be.” Ross’s voice went quieter. “He’s worked alongside Russian units before. He knows their field protocols. He knows how our radar coverage overlaps and where it’s thin. And with his years at Black Tower?” Ross exhaled, the sound heavy. “He’s been embedded in enough diplomatic and protective ops to know exactly how to get close to Coulter without raising suspicion.”
He let that sit for a beat.
“Add the data packet,” Ross finished softly, “and the picture gets...complicated.”
Complicated meant damning.
“No,” Marshall said. Just that. Quiet, absolute. “You think competence equals guilt?”
Ross’s jaw flexed. “I think motive matters. And opportunity. And recent behavior.”
“Recent—?” Marshall’s breath punched out of him. “What behavior?”
Ross looked him dead in the eye. “He went dark, Marshall. Before the missile alarm. Before the shot at Coulter. Jackson broke radio discipline for nine hours, including two directly before the situation exploded. No check-ins. No updates on his team’s position. Nothing.”
That wasn’t possible.
Except Ross wouldn’t have bothered saying it if he didn’t have the logs.
“He wouldn’t break discipline,” Marshall said, voice tightening. “Not unless he had no choice.”
“That’s one interpretation,” Ross said gently.
“It's the only interpretation,” Marshall snapped.
Ross didn’t rise to it. That might have been worse.
